Isabella knew that sabotage of some manner would come. It wasn’t in the nature of almost any in the royal court to let any slight go without some sort of response. Count Faust was a diplomat, but that didn’t mean he was somehow less ruthless. Her job, then, was to identify what was going wrong and fix it as soon as possible. She had to put out the fires before they spread, right alongside keeping up appearances for the Ambrosian envoys.
Coordination was paramount, both for her enemies and her allies. She’d thought of one rather effective way to put them on relatively even grounds.
Before the meeting began in earnest, many of the attendant diplomats crowded outside. Isabella left Arthur to his own devices and went into the crowd. It didn’t take long for Isabella to find and approach Count Faust, who stood amidst several of his compatriots. The conversation died when she approached, and all of the high-ranking men looked at her silently.
“Count Faust,” Isabella said, looking at him in the eyes. “You’re going to accompany me tonight as my translator.”
“What?” he said, setting down his goblet on a nearby servant’s platter. “Your Highness, I can think of many better qualified for the job.”
“Are you refusing?” Isabella asked.
He scoffed. “Well, no, but…”
“Once the reception begins, you’re to stay near me at all times in case I have need of you,” she said. “Is that understood?”
The count looked to be swallowing some bitter retorts, but he nodded and said, “Yes, Your Highness.”
Isabella gave a curt nod and turned away. She could understand the Ambrosian language decently, though she wasn’t quite as adept at speaking it. The purpose of assigning Count Faust as her translator was to keep him close and kill his coordination with his allies. Furthermore, she wanted to give him an opportunity to betray her in translation. If he did that, he’d be giving her the rope to hang him.
She walked around the other nobles, looking for one man in particular. It didn’t take her long to find him—he was somewhat isolated. A man in very light, yet fanciful clothes peered upon the fountain, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword strapped to his waist. Isabella thought it somewhat cold, but this man came from the frigid north. This weather would feel like a pleasant summer’s breeze to him.
“Archduke Felix,” she greeted.
The Archduke turned to look at her. He was an older man well into his forties, but he looked markedly younger. He had dark hair and intimidating maroon eyes. He was a widower with two children, both of whom were grown daughters. His wife died not long after Edgar the Great’s war to conquer the north. After the north’s armies were shattered, Felix swore fealty to her father as the Archduke of the North, demoting him from the position of king.
Felix liked to play the part of neutrality, but in truth, he was one of the most active schemers of all. This is where her knowledge of the future came into play.
“How are your daughters?” she asked him—a polite question, but one that should intrigue him.
Felix regarded her curiously. “They’re both well, Your Highness. Thank you for asking.”
“Your daughter Lady Abigail… she’s in the capital at present, yes?” Isabella said, and Felix’s face grew stern. “I believe that she’s of an age where you’re considering her marriage.”
Felix looked around, but once he was certain no one was within earshot, said, “That isn’t public knowledge, Your Highness.”
“I would like it very much if the lady could join me in the royal palace, sometime,” Isabella said. “Her situation reminds me of my brother’s. He’s also of yet unwed. It’s an important matter for the king, wouldn’t you agree?”
Felix’s stern expression lessened somewhat. “It is important. I agree.”
“Then might I send her an invitation sometime in the near future?”
The Archduke raised his glass up in partial salute. “I believe she would be receptive, Your Highness.”
“Wonderful.” Isabella smiled. “I look forward to it.”
Abigail had developed a rather marred reputation in Isabella’s past life. She was called the Graveyard Bride. During her life, she had married seven kings, each at her father’s arrangement. Archduke Felix was a man utterly determined to establish his bloodline on the throne by any means necessary. Abigail was eventually accused of participating in the murder of all her husbands, and hanged.
After his daughter’s execution, the Archduke seceded from the Kingdom of Dovhain, and with the royal court in chaos, no effort was ever made to reclaim the lost territory. In truth, there wasn’t much Isabella could do to further his ambitions, but he wouldn’t know that. An alliance forged under false pretenses would need to suffice, for now. If she hadn’t reached out, she was certain he’d take Faust’s side.
And he might be a lifeline to escape Duke Albert, Isabella reflected. He’s older than me, but nothing can be worse than the duke.
After the two biggest threats to her had been somewhat curbed, she moved toward the ambassadorial building. She intended to check with the catering staff to be sure that there were no last-minute changes made designed to make her look foolish before the eyes of the ambassadors. She was stopped at the entrance by a knight, but he quickly allowed her to pass once she asked for his name and surname.
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She wandered through the building, drawing eyes from the people that still diligently worked to set up the event. In time, she found the person giving orders, and approached them. The man read from a list in his hands, barely paying attention to his surroundings. He was large and burly, and clearly a stern fellow.
“Already finished your damn job, or is there a problem?” he asked, not looking away from the list.
“Have there been any last-minute changes made?”
“What?” the man turned his head, and then his eyes widened. From her eyes and hair alone, most would recognize her as a member of the royal family, especially a member of the staff. “Ah—Your Gr—err, Your Highness. Forgive me for my use of profanital—profane language, in the presence of your most esteemed personage.”
“Has anyone changed anything?” she repeated.
“Uhh…” the man thought hard, obviously flustered. “I mean…”
“Such as course changes, seating arrangements, et cetera,” Isabella clarified.
Given clear instructions, the man nodded and launched into a fast-paced explanation. “Yes, there has been a few major—uhh, minor adjustments. Apparently there were a few too many chairs and tables, so we gave those to another event that asked to lend them, among other moderate and temperate changes that were of no inconvenience to me and my staff.”
Isabella almost sighed, but held herself back. It was an unbelievably petty manner of sabotage, but every little tick against her would add up. “You need to rescind any changes you might’ve made because of orders received in the past day or so.”
“What?” he looked at her and swallowed. “Are you certain about that?”
“Absolutely,” Isabella said. “There’s been a serious miscommunication.”
“But…” he huffed, caught off balance. “Meaning no disrespectfulness, Your Highness, but without the old plans…”
“I happen to have them,” Isabella said, pulling a scroll out of her dress’ sleeve. She’d come prepared. “You shouldn’t have any trouble reimplementing these, yes?”
***
Count Faust already felt a little out of sorts when the princess prudently requested that he act as her translator. She wasn’t as na?ve as he’d thought, and she’d clearly thought through the repercussions of her actions. Still, it was the death of a thousand cuts that would get to her. Every small little detail going wrong, leading up to the climactic event.
The count followed closely behind the princess and her partner for the event, Arthur of Hamore. The presence of the heir to the Archwizard did shift the balance of power somewhat, but it was nothing beyond what Faust had been ready for. They entered the hall, where they’d greet and sup with the ambassadors, and…
This is the old floor plan, he realized almost immediately. He looked back at the man who said that he’d take care of things, make it awkward for the guests… but the baron responsible looked just as surprised as Faust felt. Did the orders not make it down, or…?
“I have to thank you for your diligent work, Count Faust,” Isabella said, “You’ve made the day very easy for me. Rest assured, I’ll let His Majesty know of your leal and able service.”
Faust smiled pleasantly, but fiddled with his collar as he felt a little hot. She caught on, reversed our changes. But who talked?
“There are the ambassadors,” Isabella said. “Let’s go greet them, count.”
They walked into the center of the hall, where the ambassadors were led in by calm servants and directed throughout the room. The majority of them were old men, few youths among their numbers. They all wore themselves as the Ambrosians often did—with large, bushy beards immaculate trimmed to a point, tall hats over their heads, and long robes. It was difficult to distinguish their rank. One needed to look for the style of hat they wore.
Faust waited for Princess Isabella to turn to him for direction or translation, but to his surprise, she stepped forward ahead of all and offered her hand to the leading ambassador. She’d picked out the highest-ranking ambassador without issue.
“Welcome to the land of Dovhain, ambassador,” Isabella greeted in passable Ambrosian. “I’m Princess Isabella of Dovhain. The king had given me the honor of hosting you for our talks today. I speak for my family on this afternoon in bidding you welcome.”
There was some murmuring among the ambassadors—it was quite rare for one of the royalty to personally involve themselves in ambassadorial receptions. Faust wondered if Isabella truly spoke Ambrosian, or if she had rehearsed to give a planned greeting.
“It is not so unpleasant to hear one’s tongue spoken from the mouth of a princess,” the lead ambassador said in Dovhain’s native language. He was an aged man, with gray barely framing his black beard. “Your welcome has already been well-received simply by the quarters we’ve stayed within. I am Giovanni Moro, the head ambassador.”
Faust studied Isabella as she engaged with the head ambassador calmly. He had to admit that she’d taken this role with good reason. Despite her reputation as someone taciturn and unapproachable, she was at least able to hold a conversation.
Still… it won’t matter, Faust thought. It’s bound to end in disaster.
The Duke of the Isles, Valerio, had been designated a top priority criminal by the Republic of Ambrose for his piracy. Faust had arranged for him to arrive just before the negotiations began. A discreet word here and there about the fact that she’d danced with him at the coronation, perhaps some fabrications here and there, and even Faust himself couldn’t keep things from falling apart by that point.
His people knew their role, and they’d execute even without him.
***
Duke Valerio put together his outfit in the mirror. An older man in a butler’s uniform stood in the background, his hands politely behind his back.
“Going for the look of a petty lordling again, I see,” the old man said politely.
“You know I can’t show off too much wealth, Roderick,” Valerio said. “Storm’s coming. I want fewer eyes on me, not more.”
“Then why are you heeding the invitation of Count Faust?” Roderick stepped forward. “He’s obviously intending to use you as a cudgel against that princess.”
“Because I need to squash the problems with the Republic of Ambrose now.” Valerio looked back. “It’s important for the future.”
“You could do it in a less public setting, I’m sure,” Roderick pointed out.
Valerio looked back into the mirror. “A little flare and ceremony won’t hurt. This is diplomacy, after all.” He put a singular gold ring on, then closed and opened his hand. “Besides, my protector is there.”
“Your… what?” Roderick asked in confusion.
Valerio smiled lightly. “Nothing.”
